


It's All Fire and Brimstone, Baby

by FiaMac



Series: Psycho Heroes [8]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Backstory, Gen, M/M, Pining Arthur, Pre-Inception
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-15
Updated: 2016-02-21
Packaged: 2018-05-20 18:00:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6019702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FiaMac/pseuds/FiaMac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Another backstory short. Years after they first meet, Eames and Arthur cross paths again.</p><p>"Every time he gets that murderous scowl on his face, Eames just wants to lick him up and down in the messiest of ways. Probably not the most rational response, but then Eames has always been a bit bent."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Ways of the Underside

**Author's Note:**

> Set after "Dancing Through the Slaughterhouse" and several years before the Fischer job.

There are few things in life that Eames considers immutable. Politicians, holiday traffic, pepperoni pizza—these things will go on, unchanged and unadulterated throughout the test of time.

Once was, he would have added Arthur Last-Name-Redacted to that list. When they first met, Arthur was an uptight, cold-blooded bastard whose only redeeming quality was the rather heart-stopping way he filled out a pair of trousers. Over the months they both spent in Bumfuck, USA learning to become government extractors, the stick up Arthur’s fine ass only ever nudged the teensiest bit. When Eames “retired” himself from the British military, he did so with the expectation that Arthur would continue on as the CIA’s stalwart and increasingly frigid pet assassin. A time or two, he even wondered if Arthur would be the one sent to punish him for abandoning the project. He once lost a whole week of sleep to that bit of paranoia.

In other words, Eames is not at all prepared for the next time he sees Arthur, two years after cutting loose. He just about has a heart attack, coming face to face with Arthur as he has only seen him before in dreams—pinstripe suit, hair slicked back, dark eyes gleaming with mockery. The déjà vu is not an entirely pleasant feeling.

Not entirely unpleasant, either.

This new Arthur is like a completely different person than the man Eames once knew. Still hard and elusive, but hotly hostile instead of coldly dangerous. Instead of an avalanche, this Arthur is more like a lightning storm. No less fatal, but far more selective in his victims despite the constant hum of violence riding the air around him.

Eames can’t say in full honesty that he welcomes the change because, although Eames is less afraid of becoming a casualty every time he breathes in Arthur’s direction, it’s so much harder to hold that old attraction at bay. While still far from approachable, Arthur is at least _real_ now in a way he hadn’t been before. A person instead of an urban legend. Every time he gets that murderous scowl on his face, Eames just wants to lick him up and down in the messiest of ways.

Probably not the most rational response, but then Eames has always been a bit bent.

They flit in and out of each other’s lives that year. The number of skilled, freelance dreamsharers on the ground is still slight enough that they frequently find themselves on the same job. Eames discovers that working extractions with Arthur is a far more tolerable than training with him had been. This time around, they’re on level standing, and no one is keeping score. Things might not be all puppies and rainbows between them, even now, but their shared background ensures a certain level of respect and compatibility that makes them dangerously effective at their jobs.

Nevertheless, it’s only a matter of time before a job eventually goes south. The mark turns out to be militarized, a growing threat in their line of work. Someone in the business has been loose-lipped, making it harder for a dreamthief to earn a living these days. Fortunately, Eames and Arthur are not the average extraction team. Arthur figures out almost immediately what they’re up against and shoots them both out scant minutes ahead of the mark. Enough time to beat a hasty retreat—not enough time to avoid a shoot-out in a six-floor parking garage.

Yes, they could and will battle their way out, but that’s only going to get them so far. Their mark, a powerful and predictably corrupt businessman, controls the local police force like it’s his own personal cleaning service. By now the entire city will be on lock-down. The entire job had been hinged on stealth, and without it they don’t have a viable egress plan.

The bullet-ridden Mercedes they’re huddled behind barely provides cover for the two of them. Probably best, then, that they’re down a man. Their architect, a sadly unmemorable bloke named Tomoki, lies dead several meters back, leaving just Eames and Arthur to return fire against the miniature army that has them pinned down.

Eames adjusts his stance so he’s no longer kneeling on shards of glass and empties the last of his clip into a trio of guards that are attempting to flank their position.

As he ducks down to reload, Arthur leans over his shoulder to finish off the flankers before resuming fire into main force blocking their exit.

From his position at Arthur’s side, Eames has a front row view when Arthur switches his gun to his left hand and pulls his phone out of his right trouser pocket. Eames can see the phone lighting up with an incoming call, but the displayed number means nothing to him. Arthur glances at the display, tucks the phone away, and keeps firing.

Less than a minute later, Arthur pulls his phone out again. Eames can see it’s the same number as before. He’s about to make a brilliantly witty remark about admirers and fan clubs when, astonishingly, Arthur answers the damn phone.

“Not now,” he barks, before hanging up. Immediately the phone lights up again.

Eames observes this little drama from the corner of his eye while maintaining a steady wave of fire. To his chagrin, Arthur continues to match him shot for shot, hit for hit, even when he picks up the call.

“On second thought, I need an immediate evac out of Tangier. As in, _fucking now_ …Track my coordinates… Kind of busy, Dave. Can it—Say again? Why?” Arthur pulls back behind cover, giving the conversation his full attention.

Eames flinches as a bullet passes close enough to induce his pucker-factor. “This is hardly the time for a chat, darling.”

Arthur hands Eames his gun and waves him off absently, eyes focused inward. Eames rolls his eyes, even though Arthur isn’t watching to fully appreciate his vexation, and keeps shooting. The majority of his focus, however, is fixed on the one-sided conversation next to him.

“What happened? What do you mean, she _lost it?_ How could she of all—goddamnit.” Eames looks over and sees that Arthur’s eyes have gone flat, like they used to be when they first met. “Never mind. What do you need? I’m not a fucking nursemaid, Dave. What am I supposed—fine. Fine. Take him to Madrid and sit on him until I get there… Depends on how long your evac takes. Two. Fresh IDs… Local law enforcement is a complication. Affirmative. Standby.” He mutes the phone. “Eames, what alias are you rolling?”

“Who’s asking?”

“CIA.”

“Fuck me,” Eames shakes his head, resigning himself to a very long day. “Thomas Winston.”

Arthur relays the info into the phone. “Put an expedite on that, will you?” He hangs up and takes his gun back. His eyes are expressionless, but the lines around his mouth are tight with tension. He starts shooting with extreme prejudice.

Eames wonders who died. Because, in his experience, only death puts that look on someone’s face.

They fire at every head that pops up, holding the enemy at bay but gaining no ground. Eames is loading his last clip when a series of explosions hit the exit to the garage, where the bulk of the opposition is—was clustered. There’s a telling silence following the blast.

Arthur shoves Eames in the direction of the blast, prodding him into a crouched jog. “Our ride’s here. Let’s go.”

Eames leads the way through crumpled bodies and concrete, gun held at the ready. “Care to share with the class, love?”

“I’m going to Madrid. You don’t have to come.” Arthur takes the lead once they clear the garage. He weaves through a barricade of smoldering police cars, striding purposefully towards an unremarkable sedan down the road. The neighborhood is devoid of life save for a few faces peeking down at them from windows of a hotel across the street. Eames jumps into the passenger seat when Arthur makes it clear he intends to drive, noticing that the keys are already in the ignition. They drive off, leaving the destruction behind them and losing themselves in the urban bustle after a few blocks.

Eames picks the conversation back up. “Nonsense. I love Spain. Beautiful women, culture, tapas…” He slouches down in his seat so he can watch their six without making a target of himself. “What’s in Madrid?”

“We’re meeting Cobb.”

Eames swivels his head around to eye Arthur with disbelief. “Cobb of the CIA? Old Chuckle-Nuts? That Cobb? Say it isn’t so, darling.”

Arthur calmly switches lanes, but the angle of his jaw is rigid with tension. “It’s so, I’m afraid.”

“Now why would we want to do a silly thing like that? And since when do you work for the CIA again?”

“I never stopped.”

“What the shit? Arthur, I’m deeply disappointed in you.” And, fuck him, Eames realizes he rather _is_ disappointed for reasons he cares not at all to examine.

“Not really, anyway.” Arthur shrugs. “Consider me a freelance contractor for the agency.”

“Always did wonder how you of all people got out with your pieces intact. How exactly _did_ you swing that arrangement?”

“Cobb.”

“Uh huh. Bringing us back to the matter at hand. Very tidy.”

Arthur ignores the leading edge to that statement, acting like it requires all of his concentration to steer them through an intersection.

“Arthur?”

“There should be an envelope in the glove compartment. Tell me where I’m going.”

Eames finds said envelope and rifles through maps and various forms of identification for Ben Goldstein and Thomas Winston. “Take a left, head for Rue Jamaa Mokraa.”

They drive in silence, making their way ever closer to the coast. Surprisingly, it’s Arthur who breaks the quiet. “Look, really, you don’t have to come.”

Eames considers that for all of two seconds. Knowing he’s making his getaway on the back of the CIA doesn’t sit well, but it’s quickly becoming second nature to throw in his chips purely on Arthur’s say-so. “Whatever you need, I’m there. You know that. ‘Sides… I rather owe you, don’t I? I just like to know what puddle I’m stepping in.”

Arthur goes silent again, long enough for Eames to think he isn’t going to answer. And then… “Cobb is on the run,” he says, voice flat. “Murder charge.”

There are literally a dozen things Eames was expecting to hear. Neither of those are on the list. They throw his world view into a slight lurch, but he recovers with aplomb. Expect everything and nothing, after all. “Always knew he had it in him, the old goat. And whom did he kill?”

The look Arthur throws him is unreadable. But, this time, he responds right away.

“His wife.” 


	2. Ante Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't mean to write a second chapter to this... it just sort of happened.

The day is getting late by the time Arthur lets them into his Madrid safe house. He secures the door behind them as Eames looks around with unabashed interest. The apartment is small but recently remodeled in a combination of bare wood floors and modern furniture. The open plan living room and kitchen take up most of the space, with a tiny corridor leading off the kitchen into the back of the apartment. Arthur likes it, could see himself living in a place like this. In another life.

“So,” Eames asks brightly, “this is home sweet home, is it?”

“One of.” He means to leave it at that, but Arthur has a tendency to talk too much when Eames is around. “Got a few places set up around Europe and the States. A couple in South America.” He glances around, trying to see the place with Eames’s eyes. It’s clear by the lack of décor and anything more personal than the empty fruit bowl on the counter that the apartment has gone unused since he first set it up, seven months ago.

But it’s nice fruit bowl, at least.

“Figures. Been curious as to where you keep all those suits, honestly.” Eames pokes around the kitchen, opening drawers and inspecting the barren fridge. Arthur makes a mental note to stock up on food as soon as possible. Once he’s gotten Dom settled.

“Make yourself at home. There’s a second bedroom. I need to meet up with Cobb and pick up some supplies.” He goes into the master bedroom, conscious of Eames following on his heels.

“Don’t let me put you out. I’m perfectly capable of running ‘round the shops while you fetch the man.”

Arthur ignores him and heads straight for the tall gun locker by the bed. He keys in the combo without bothering to hide his actions from Eames. Wouldn’t have done much good, with Eames literally watching over his shoulder.

Eames whistles, eyeing the small arsenal with an appreciation that makes Arthur feel absurdly proud. “Not a bad setup, there. May I?” He gestures towards a healthy-sized stack of nine-millimeter rounds.

“Go for it.” Arthur reloads his own weapon while Eames helps himself to a box of rounds and a spare clip. Then Eames spots the steel case at the bottom of the locker.

“Is that a PASIV?”

Arthur doesn’t see any point in prevaricating. “Yes.”

“No wonder you weren’t fashed about leaving the one back in Tangier,” Eames muses. “How many of them you’ve got, then?”

Arthur shrugs, closing up the locker. “A few.”

“What, the CIA send you off with a care package or something?”

“I, ah…” Arthur can’t help but look over his shoulder at the other man. “I build my own.” And because he _really_ can’t seem to help himself, “I’ve actually been able to modify the design quite a bit, reduce the bulk."

Eames looks stunned. “Bloody hell, Arthur. Extractors are selling their souls for PASIV devices, and you’re sitting on your own personal warehouse, aren’t you?”

“It’s a bitch trying to get one of these things through customs. Easier to just keep them on supply.” Arthur holsters his gun and moves back into the main living space, increasingly discomforted by talking to Eames within spitting distance of a bed. Eames trails after, as expected.

“You know, you could make a right fortune selling those.”

Arthur smirks despite himself. “What makes you think I don’t?”

But Eames laughs that thought off. “You? Nah. You’re a noble sort, you are.”

Arthur shoves his hands in this pockets, unnerved by this first real compliment Eames has ever given him, however questionable it may be. “You think so?” And he isn’t sure what to make of the smile on Eames’s face.

“Of course. Came to my rescue two years ago, didn’t you?”

“I don’t think compromising the security of a U.S. military base qualifies as noble.”

“All in how you look at it, I guess,” Eames shrugs. “And here you are again, riding to Cobb’s rescue.”

Arthur pulls a spare set of keys from a kitchen drawer and tosses them to Eames, who catches them neatly. “Let’s just say I owe Dom a favor.”

“Tomato, tomahto,” Eames says, pocketing the keys. Then he gives Arthur a cheeky smile. “See you in a few, then?”

“Lock the door on your way out.”

 

 

 

Arthur collects Cobb from a couple of rookie agents that clearly think they’re running some kind of VIP security detail. Arthur leaves them their illusions and takes off without making small talk. Cobb could obviously care less—he observes his surroundings with the expression of a man trapped in his own thoughts. He doesn’t even show any surprise when Arthur shows up.

It’s been little more than a year since Arthur last saw Cobb, but the changes evident in the man are prominent. The face that used to be lit with boyish zeal is now hardened by stress and grief. Eyes dark and feverish, haunted by demons Arthur can only guess at.

Arthur figures the best thing he can do is get Cobb back to the apartment as quickly as possible. He’s suddenly grateful towards Eames for insisting on coming. He doesn’t like the idea of leaving Cobb alone while looking so desperate, and he wonders if the next few days will be a suicide watch. If so, it might be better to just hand the man his own gun because Arthur doesn’t know the first thing about managing someone else’s pain. Unless inflicting it counts.

Eames is already back by the time they arrive at the apartment. Cobb acknowledges him with a small nod, obviously recognizing him but caring little about his presence. They’ve overshot a respectable dinner hour by now, so Eames throws together some simple ham sandwiches. They eat in silence—well, Arthur and Eames eat while Cobb just crumbles the bread with restless fingers. Fortunately, everyone is too tired to care if it’s awkward.

Arthur gets Cobb settled in the bedroom—the spare room, as Eames volunteered to sleep on the couch. They tacitly agreed it was a bad idea to put Cobb in the room with all the guns. Cobb drops down on the edge of the bed, and it’s like the basic act of breathing is suddenly too much for him. Head held in his hands, elbows on his knees, he’s a battered remnant of the man who seduced Arthur into the world of dreamshare with passionate lectures about existentialism and creation.

Arthur leans against the doorway and tries to figure out how they came to this moment. “Why are you running, Dom?” He asks, trying for his least-confrontational tone. “Why didn’t the agency take care of it?”

Cobb doesn’t lift his head. “She did it. She set it all up. Mal—she…” A wet-sounding laugh. “She’s always been the clever one. Set up the room. The hotel. Looked like we fought, like I—” The room fills with the sounds of Cobb’s unsteady breaths. “The police were already on their way. Somehow, she… I barely got out in time.”

Arthur struggles for patience, for understanding. “That still doesn’t explain—”

“It was too public. All over the news within hours. The program…” Cobb looks up finally, eyes narrow with bitterness. “Budget cuts, right? Fiscal responsibility. And suddenly no one wants to be associated with a secret military experiment that may or may not be turning people insane. Shutting everything down.” Cobb waves a hand in a cutting gesture, building up steam. “Those assholes, they can’t see the full picture. Just care about election cycles and don’t care about the years of research—”

“They’re shutting down the dreamshare projects?” Arthur jumps in.

Cobb sighs, deflating again. “Yes. Sort of. You know how these things work. Somewhere, someone will keep working on the technology. Refining applications. Nothing official.”

Arthur nods, understanding at last. Now it’s perfectly clear why Dave has him babysitting Cobb instead of just stashing him underground until the media fury died off. The CIA wants its golden child back and in the saddle, but for that they need Cobb stable. Need to keep him in the game. “They’re going to bring you back in.”

A flicker of longing passes across Cobb’s face, followed instantly by sickened despair. “I can’t.”

“They won’t give you a choice. Not if you want to go home.”

Cobb shakes his head. “I can’t, Arthur.”

And Arthur wants to leave it be, but he is indebted to this man, their positions eerily paralleled. “Dom… Your kids…”

Cobb stares blankly at the wall, retreating into some internal world. “I’ll find my own way,” he murmurs in a broken voice. “Get back on my own.”

And, not knowing what more to say—or if anything more even should be said—Arthur eases out of the room, bringing the door closed behind him.

 

 

 

They lay low the next few days. Arthur makes some immediate and long-term plans. A call to Dave neither confirms nor denies Arthur’s interpretation of the facts—which is confirmation in itself. So Arthur makes arrangements to bring Cobb to Moscow with him in two weeks. He has a job lined up there—a low risk extraction with the possibility of doing some militarization for a banking mogul.

Meanwhile, his focus is just keeping everything calm. Eames helps out by cooking and such, while Arthur keeps Cobb in a carefully controlled state of shit-faced. It’s the best he can think to do, and Eames has thoughtfully acquired a substantial stock of wine and scotch during his outings.

Arthur tries to thank Eames for his help. Or, yes, okay—if one is being honest, he tries to flirt with Eames. He offers to help with dinner, and they spend a pleasant evening together fixing up a quick meal of steaks and sautéed vegetables. Arthur pulls out tricks from his limited repertoire—standing closer than necessary to reach the pepper, complimenting Eames’s cooking, even showing off his knife skills as he preps the vegetables. He makes plenty of eye contact when they sit down to eat, just the two of them since Dom failed to get out of bed. But everything seems to fly straight over Eames’s head. Arthur feels the opportunity slipping through his fingers, and he’s helpless to make it stop.

Eames finishes off his second glass of wine and pours himself a third. “Another for you?” He offers.

Arthur considers the remains of his first and only glass, shakes his head. “I shouldn’t,” he says, and watches Eames roll his eyes before the words have even finished leaving his mouth.

“Come on, Arthur. You know, it won’t kill you to loosen up from time to time.” Eames slouches back in his chair, a slight smile on his lips, but his gaze is full of familiar old taunts.

The remark is one Arthur has heard numerous times, but it stings a little extra coming from Eames. Arthur tries to brush it off. Eames doesn’t know, doesn’t understand that he _needs_ to stay focused. In control. Doesn’t understand the risk he takes if he lets his subconscious influence his actions. “I’m good.”

Eames scoffs. “You’re hardly anything of the sort, darling. You’re so locked up, it’s a wonder you can even sit with that stick up your arse.”

Arthur feels himself turn rigid, no doubt cementing Eames’s opinion of him. But he can’t help it. He is, at least, able to keep an expression of casual annoyance on his face. “Thanks.”

Eames plunks his glass on the table and rubs a hand over his mouth. “Look, I’m not trying to bust your balls, here. Honestly.” And he does sound sincere, not that it makes things any better. “I’m just saying, live a bit, yeah? Life’s too short, and all that.”

Arthur pushes back from the table. “Quite the opposite, actually.” But he doesn’t elaborate, leaving Eames with his wine and the dirty dishes.

**Author's Note:**

> Story and chapter titles from "The Mission (M Is for Milla Mix)" by Puscifer.
> 
> Look for the [Psycho Heroes Soundtrack](https://open.spotify.com/user/qvxh3o4rvca6soodo82lagqt8/playlist/2TOcGz53b6ONaVS8Q3gIGZ) on Spotify!


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